Pirate - Duncan Falconer [23]
Stratton had been held captive many times before. But not by pirates. They were a new experience for him. On this occasion he was an economic commodity. He had a monetary value to them. They were going to put him and Hopper up for sale. That was unless the Saudi could change the stakes.
A craggy, arid scar of land became visible as the light improved, a lifeless spur of yellow and grey rock with few trees. As they drew closer to the coast, dozens of what had looked like bobbing seagulls hundreds of metres away became small fishing boats. When the pirate boat passed by them, the two or three occupants in each paused to watch, nets in their hands. There was the occasional wave of an arm. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sight to them. A couple of younger fishermen watched with envious eyes, perhaps wondering when it would be their turn to gain a chance of becoming rich.
Stratton could make out buildings beyond a golden beach that stretched as far as the eye could see in both directions. A pall of smoke hung in the air above the habitats like a thin, floating carpet. The town was on a slight incline from the water’s edge and at first looked like a sprawling caravan park until the structures became small single-storey brick and mud houses. A hundred or so in all, simple and square with flat roofs and nothing in between them but sand.
Dozens more fishing boats dotted the water in front of the town and along the coast in both directions. Several of the smaller, faster pirate boats left the flotilla and headed for the beachfront, their powerful engines roaring in pitches as they bounced over the heavy waves.
As Stratton looked further along the coastline, he counted three large commercial ships in a line, anchored a short distance apart and quite close to the shore. The seabed evidently fell steeply away from the beach.
The coastline curved sharply beyond the last of the three ships in the shape of a hook, turning back on itself to form a kind of cul-de-sac. It came to a point where it doubled back again to continue its course. The bows of the largest ship, a merchantman as long as a football field, were almost inside the entrance to the cul-de-sac that acted like a sea mole, providing a level of protection from the heavier seas coming down the coast.
When the pirate mother craft was a few hundred metres from the stern of the nearest anchored cargo vessel, it turned to head directly towards the beach. A stone’s throw from the sand the engines went into full and noisy reverse to bring it to a halt. A couple of anchors were tossed over the side to prevent the waves from pushing the boat up on to the beach.
Stratton studied the cargo ships. They looked like they had been abandoned. So they were more than likely hijacked vessels. The town didn’t look equipped to handle any kind of heavy cargo, that was for sure.
He wondered where the crews were and suspected he might soon be joining them.
4
A Somali hauled Stratton, Hopper and Sabarak in a line along the side of the deck to a waiting skiff. They climbed over the side, their hands still tied, and down a ladder to the small boat where they sat opposite armed guards. The skiff’s pilot, an old man with greying head hair and beard, hardly looked at them. He had done this a thousand times.
The waves dumped heavily on to the sandy beach but the old pilot displayed a high level of skill and experience to take the little craft over the crest of a large wave and to a fairly smooth stop in the returning frothy surf. The water had looked dark and murky from the pirate boat but along the beach it was transparent.
Stratton stepped into the water expecting it to be warm to match the air and dusty surroundings but it was cool and fresh as it flooded his